


innocence

by sugarspuncoeurls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Concept Art Solas, F/M, Female Character of Color, Gen, Pre-Solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarspuncoeurls/pseuds/sugarspuncoeurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows, she knows, they all know, that at the first given opportunity, at the first sign that she isn’t what the council insists she is, she’ll be tied to the proverbial stake and set ablaze. Heathen, sinner, abomination.</p><p>And what does she do? She plays with the children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	innocence

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A little bunny that wouldn't leave me be.

They think her a witch.

It isn’t difficult to see. However much they revere her to her face, shower her with gifts, call her ‘Worship’, they spit at her back, eye her with disdain, whisper that she’ll be the end of them, the end to all things good, if she is indeed Andraste’s chosen. He knows, she knows, they _all_ know, that at the first given opportunity, at the first sign that she isn’t what the council insists she is, she’ll be tied to the proverbial stake and set ablaze. _Heathen, sinner, abomination._

He doesn’t know what’s more amazing: their two-faced hypocrisy, or her response to it.

She plays with the children.

He sees them now, spread out by the campfire, tightly knit groups of little bodies surrounding her seat at the fore. There’s laughter, and shouts, and titters of talk as they ask her questions. She handles them expertly, leaves not one child feeling neglected, and they love her for it.

Heathen, sinner, abomination, they say she is. And yet their own children listen to her, follow her wherever she goes as if she’s growing flowers with every step she takes. They laugh at her stories and heed her protective warnings and return to their homes still chirping, for once unconcerned with dreaded vegetables at dinner and fast-approaching bedtimes.

Funny, because she does much the same. Meeting in the evenings as they’re wont to do, she regales him with tales of their little games. “You certainly have a way with them,” he replies. “I’ve never seen children so happily well-behaved.”

“I have experience to thank for that,” she explains. “I was a teacher for a good while, though mostly part-time. Apparently all children behave much the same, regardless of where you happen to be.”

He nods, then pauses as one word stands out from the rest. “ _Was_ a teacher? You aren’t any longer?”

She pauses as well, though for different reasons. Gazing at her face, he sees it minutely constrict, her gray brows furrowing in effort. When she clears her throat and it catches, he knows he’s made a mistake.

“No,” she says, smiling to cover herself. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t realize why for some time, but when he does – and spirits, he should have known; rumors of the annulment of the Dairsmuid’s Circle in Rivain spread so far that even hermits like him caught wind of the echoes – it clicks, why those children make her smile so beautifully, like the sun rising at dawn.

How much do they remind her of the pupils she so cruelly lost only a paltry few months ago? How much does their innocence remind her of better times, before everything collapsed into a pile of pulverized wood and bloodied stone and horror-yet-to-fade?

He doesn’t say anything else, and neither does she. Their silence eventually turns comfortable again on its own, and she ultimately seems unoffended by his ignorance.

When they part later on in the evening, however, he can’t help the gentle hand he places on her shoulder (and he is already beginning to curse himself for the simple pleasure he finds in their friendly touches. They always said he was impulsive, and time nor distance seems to have changed that.). She looks at him, curious, until their eyes meet and she sees the sentiment encompassing his features. The light from the torches makes the precious bits of gold in her eyes glow, and she lifts her own hand to place it over his, near-black skin on brown.

She smiles. The forgiveness in it, and the sadness, is palpable.

Heathen, sinner, abomination, they say she is. As if she isn’t the every reason they’re alive to say such things at all. As if she hasn’t left an entire life behind in order to serve them and a god with whom she has no ties.

But that isn’t what’s important.

Tomorrow, they’ll come looking for her again, tiny drumbeats of excited feet passing through the square at the same time they do every day, when the sun hits its zenith in the sky. There might be less of them (as some of the parents have started to forbid their children from taking part) or there might be more (as some of the children have started sneaking away to take part anyway, and bringing friends with them). Regardless, she’ll be there, perhaps with books, perhaps with trinkets she’s received from who-knows-where. Perhaps she’ll bring Varric, who’ll reluctantly pause in his writings long enough to spin a quick, carefully-censored tale (what powerful magic she uses to get him to do it, he doesn’t know). Perhaps she’ll bring the Chargers, who love the wild cheers they get when they conduct their sparring matches, so long as they keep the rowdiness to a minimum. Perhaps she’ll even bring him, and set him down before the group to recite ancient fables, his words fumbling and her laughter sounding over his shoulder when the children ask him to do voices.

Perhaps, still, she’ll just bring herself, because gods know that’s all the little goblins really want. Her, the beautiful elven lady who reads them stories and teaches them songs, who smells like flowers and fresh air and sea salt, who rubs nice-feeling stuff onto their skinned knees when they get hurt (or pretend to, at least, because who wouldn’t want her undivided attention, if only for a small moment?).

To them, she is no Herald, no Inquisitor, nor is she the witch so many think her to be. To them, she is Teacher, Healer, Friend. _Miss Abri._

And witnessing the smile that overtakes her lovely face when she sees _their_ little faces in turn, it’s clear that’s all that really matters.


End file.
